


Love During Wartime

by CobaltStargazer



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Hurt Locker (2008)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Crossover, F/M, Sokovia, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-06 04:38:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15878712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CobaltStargazer/pseuds/CobaltStargazer
Summary: Clint Barton is a solider stationed in a place he'd rather not be. Wanda Maximoff is part of the resistance that wants the army out. This is their story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is something that's been in the works for a long time. I hope I manage to finish it. Wish me luck!

It was because they offered him a captaincy. That was what Clint told himself when he signed his name on the papers accepting the assignment. He was at the end of his tour and looking forward to going home to Boston when his CO asked him for ten minutes of his time. If he'd known those ten minutes would cost him another two years overseas, he might have politely declined and gone on his way, but by the time that occurred to him it was a done deal. Colonel Fury had a way of talking the soldiers in his command into doing what he requested. 

"We could use someone with your skills, Lieutenant Barton. Sokovia's a way station to a lot of places, not so much a target on its own, but we're keeping a presence there for the time being."

"Are there insurgents in place, sir?"

The colonel's office was large, with a desk that was cluttered with maps and files. Clint was never sure if he was supposed to look into the other man's remaining eye or at the patch, so he compromised by focusing his attention just to the left, so that it wasn't obvious. Not that Fury seemed to notice either way, since he was rifling through papers while he talked.

"No one's called them that yet, but it's a borderline situation. There are those who want the army out, and there's a rumor that some of our weapons have found their way into not so friendly hands. The intel I've gotten isn't clear as to if they were stolen or if some enterprising supply clerk has taken up moonlighting. I've got eyes in some places, ears in others. But I need boots on the ground for first hand confirmation."

"I'm a soldier, sir, not an agent. I don't do infiltration work."

The senior officer looked up, the eyebrow above the patch lifting. "I've read your file, Lieutenant, you have an impressive record. What makes you such a good soldier is that you can keep a cool head under pressure, even in combat. Not many men can say they've been under heavy artillery fire and still pick off the one who's shooting at him with a sniper's rifle. You saved a dozen other lives, Barton, not just your own."

"Thank you, Colonel. I was just..."

He almost said 'I was just doing my job', then decided against it. The only thing worse than bragging when there was nothing to brag about was pointless modesty, in his opinion, and he'd felt the adrenaline rush for hours after the battle was over. He rarely wore the medal he received, mostly because his dress uniform stayed in its dry cleaning bag. He was sitting at half-attention in the chair, which squeaked slightly whenever he moved.

When he spoke again, he opted for, "There are a lot of good soldiers, sir. I've served with some of them. Why me specifically?"

The papers stopped rustling, and the colonel looked at him over the desk. He only said it because he had half a foot out the door, was ready to go home for good. He'd enlisted out of wanting to contribute, make whatever difference he could, but he hadn't been home since he'd started his last stint, and that was four years ago. Clint had never wanted to be a lifer, just do his part.

"Because I don't know what's happening yet," Fury said evenly, his sole eye trained on the lieutenant's face. "It might be nothing. If it _is_ nothing, you'll be in and out in no time. But I need someone in place who's guaranteed not to make a mess where there isn't already a mess. Our job is to put out fires, not start them."

"Sir? Your car's here."

Clint thought the interruption might save him, that Fury's adjutant poking her head into the room would distract the colonel, but he held up a broad brown hand and said, "Tell you what. If an officer's commission would help, I can get you one. You should have been promoted by now anyway. I help you, you help me."

It was, he supposed, not a bad trade. He could go home with captain's bars, retire early with a commission and have more money put away when he finally got back. Clint studied his travel orders as he stood in the parking lot of the barracks, looked over his shoulder once before he hoisted his duffel over his shoulder. A Jeep would be taking him to the airstrip in the morning, after he'd had at least ten hours worth of sleep and a big breakfast. If the colonel was right about it being nothing, it would be an easy assignment. If not...

It looked like he was going to Sokovia.


	2. Chapter 2

It was just past seven in the morning when the army transport plane taxied down the runway on the airstrip in Sokovia. It was September, summer turning into fall, and the sun was just starting its climb above the horizon. Clint's boots hit the tarmac with a thump as he avoided the last two steps on the ladder, his new backpack jostling against his shoulder. His duffel bag was in the cargo hold, and he knew it would take a couple of hours to locate it, but he'd stopped by the PX on the way to his bunk and bought some things. Chocolate bars, batteries, an extra flashlight, some paperbacks, a deck of playing cards, three pairs of sunglasses, and a carton of cigarettes. He'd also gotten his hair freshly buzzed, since it had been getting shaggy by the end of his hitch. The new chill in the air was obvious on the back of his bare neck as he crossed the concrete.

The terminal was small, a squat gray building that did little to improve the charm of the place. A handful of Jeeps dotted the parking lot, and Clint looked idly at the flag where it hung limply in the breezeless dawn. He'd slept on the flight instead of reading the informational packet the colonel's adjutant had given him on the way out of Fury's office, since it was ten hours long and the envelope was thin enough to fit in his back pocket. Whatever minefield he may - or may not - have been dropped into, the papers he'd been given couldn't tell him more than seeing things for himself, and if he had to be here, he'd make the best of it.

It had _not_ escaped his attention that he was the only officer on board the flight, his newly minted captain's bars so obvious that he'd taken off his uniform jacket before getting comfortable. He wasn't used to it yet, but he'd learned you could get used to anything. He shifted his pack as the door swung shut behind him. There were few people around, but one bored-looking clerk was behind the information desk. 

"Got your orders?"

"Yeah."

Clint smoothed the papers out on the desktop, since they'd been in the jacket when he took it off. The clerk gave them a cursory once-over, passed them back. "Not much going on this early, huh?"

"Not much going on ever. We're the only game in town since the university closed in the spring, and the local government says there's no plans to reopen. Not enough money, not enough teachers, not enough interest. There's a McDonald's, I think, but..."

The captain looked over his shoulder, through the doors at the quiet parking lot. The words sounded rote, as if the clerk had said them so many times they'd lost most of their meaning, but that didn't signify anything. Still, it seemed like such a _dull_ place on the surface.

_Would one easy assignment be so bad?_

That was the tiny voice that had stuck with him since Budapest, where he'd been stationed last. He was still having bad dreams - okay, nightmares - that he hadn't talked to anyone about. _Couldn't_ talk about, not without having to dig around under barely-healed scar tissue. He'd told Fury the truth, he was a soldier and not a spy, but while he might have been ready to go home for good, he wanted it to be on his terms. Not on a psych discharge, and the army shrinks were worse than the ones who charged three hundred dollars for a fifty minute hour. Sneakier.

"You're the first brass I've seen come through," the desk jockey said, his voice containing a little more animation. Clint shrugged, tucking his papers back into his jacket. 

"Don't get used to it. I'm here by accident, pretty much."

A metallic jingle distracted him, and when the clerk offered him some keys he took them without thought. It was closing in on eight in the morning, but the long flight still had him jet-lagged despite the extended nap he'd taken. Maybe they'd have coffee when he got to the base. He should have bought some before he left. Covering a yawn with one hand, Clint tried out a salute with the other. Just to see if it made his new rank feel legitimate. 

It didn't.

Outside, he played eenie-meenie-miney-mo until he found the Jeep the keys went with, and the vehicle started with a grumble. He could see the plane being unloaded, bags and boxes and crates being deposited on the tarmac. Clint opened his pack and rummaged around until he'd found the smokes he'd bought. Winstons. He'd gotten the last carton. He lit one and smoked while he watched the items on the side of the airstrip pile up. If the place was as calm underneath as it looked on the surface, he might have an easy two years of it. 

**If. Might**


	3. Chapter 3

Wanda Maximoff was the first person in her family to go to college.

Sokovia was a poor country, existing in the shadow of wealthier nations, but its strategic value allowed its leaders to support basic infrastructure. Through negotiating with the militaries of other governments, there was enough money to keep the roads in good repair and make sure the power grid stayed active, but not much else. Education was considered, if not a luxury, then an inessential. The state run schools taught the basics, and jobs were so thin on the ground that the best most could hope for was to be hired by either the government or one of the embassies that dotted the landscape. Wanda was in her second year studying bookkeeping, something practical she could use once she graduated. Her grades had been good enough that she'd earned a small scholarship, got a job to help cover extra costs. She wanted to finish school, graduate so she could get work at one of the foreign embassies. Maybe get sent overseas, if she was lucky.

She wasn't.

In March, she'd gotten an official letter saying that classes would be suspended for a short time, and the feeling of dread had barely settled when a news report announced that the university would be closing its doors at the end of the term. Wanda had watched the broadcast in her apartment, where she lived alone, and then she'd joined three of her neighbors when they merged into the crowd heading towards the campus. It was the first protest she'd participated in, no matter how accidentally. It hadn't done any good, and the buildings stood unoccupied now that fall had arrived. When a refund check for half of her semester's tuition arrived in the mail, she used some of it to catch up on bills, then deposited the rest in the bank with ill grace. Her books were still sitting on the end table in the hall, a reminder of the opportunity she'd lost, but she couldn't bring herself to throw them out. 

In the present, she was cleaning offices during the day and scouring the internet in the evenings for the possibility of online classes. There were relief organizations to turn to, and Stark Industries had gotten a toehold through the development of weapons. All was not lost _yet_ , though she'd have preferred to do this by herself. She'd been on her own since her parents died, and Wanda was hanging on to the belief that she could continue to make it that way.

It was early when Wanda locked the door of her apartment behind her. She lived on the third floor of her building, one of the industrial structures most of Sokovia's citizens lived in. The hallway was silent, making the noises of her footsteps seem even louder as she descended the stairs to the sidewalk. The elevator was out of order again. But the bus always showed up on time, and she was hurrying a little so as not to miss it. Today was pay day, and she needed to do some grocery shopping.

As she reached the marked stop for the bus, a dark green truck rounded the corner and headed up the street. Wanda pulled her jacket tighter around herself. The morning was chilly, a heavy layer of clouds obscuring the sun. They would probably burn off by noon, she knew. Fall in Sokovia was unpredictable; not quite summer anymore, but not cold enough to be winter. When the cold season _did_ arrive it seemed to last forever, an eternal period of frigid temperatures and dirty snow.

"Hey, gorgeous!"

The voice was nearly lost in the rush of air as the truck barrelled past, and Wanda turned into it to give the driver and his passenger the finger. The soldiers were the worst of it lately, because it was beginning to feel like an occupation, not just a strategic placement. In her more rational moments, she knew the uniformed men likely didn't want to be here, but when she was on her way to a ten hour shift while a random voice shouted at her from a passing vehicle, she didn't feel very rational. Wanda faced forward again, marched the rest of the way to the bus stop. She was carrying a plain paper bag with her lunch in it, a sandwich and a slightly wilted apple.

There were computers in some of the areas she was assigned to tidy, emptying wastebaskets and re-stocking the paper towels in the restrooms, among other things. No one would mind if she stole some time for herself, checked out job openings elsewhere. Her parents had wanted her to finish school. _She_ had wanted to finish school, but for now that was not in the cards. If she stubbornly insisted on keeping the textbooks instead of throwing them in the trash, they represented her hopes just as much as her frustration. For now, she would settle for a job that paid better than slightly above minimum wage.. 

Right on schedule, the bus arrived within the next few minutes, belching exhaust into the early morning air. Wanda dropped four tokens into the slot, the mechanical sound the machine made muffling the driver's 'good morning' and her response. A handful of other passengers read newspapers or drank coffee from Styrofoam cups as she took a seat near the back, her lunch bag crinkling as she put it down. Beyond the smudged window, the rest of the city was just beginning to wake up. 

She would also check the break room, see if there were extras she could take home from the catered lunch yesterday. No one would miss the food, and it would help her stretch her paycheck. Wanda had been getting by on her own for a long time now. There seemed to be little reason to change things at this point.


End file.
